


The Weight of Secrets Shared

by BowlOfGlow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Canon Divergence, Female Friendship, Gen, Morally Ambiguous Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:25:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1249270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowlOfGlow/pseuds/BowlOfGlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary comes home to find a woman she's never met sitting on her sofa. It seems like no one really stays dead, these days.</p><p> <i>“Who are you?” Mary asks, her voice like ice. </i></p><p> <i>The woman cocks an eyebrow at her, not looking particularly impressed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she says. “I haven’t touched your husband, you really don’t have to worry. He doesn’t like me much, I’m afraid.”</i></p><p>
  <i>“Who are you?” Mary repeats, dropping every word like a stone. The woman must pick up on her deadly tone because she doesn’t ignore the question this time.</i>
</p><p> <i>“Irene Adler,” she says. “A pleasure.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of Secrets Shared

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21766.html?thread=129755654#t129755654) that I didn’t quite fill.
> 
> Many many thanks to [**PipMer**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer), [fathomthis](http://fathomthis.livejournal.com/profile) and [**fennishjournal**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi) for beta reading this. Any mistake remaining is entirely my own.

The intercom comes to life with a crackling noise.

“Sir,” Janine says. “Ms Adler is here.”

In his office, Magnussen presses a button and leans towards the intercom on his desk. “Send her up.”

 

The clicking of Irene’s heels can be heard seconds before she walks in. She’s wearing a long black coat tied at the waist and clutches a small handbag.

“Evening,” she greets Janine, flashing her a wicked smile. She turns when a bodyguard in a black suit steps towards her, eyeing him with barely concealed contempt. “Is it really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am,” the bodyguard says in a conciliatory tone. 

“Oh, very well,” Irene scoffs, outstretching her arms. “If you must.”

The bodyguard performs a perfunctory frisking, asking her to open her coat, briefly patting along her sides. Irene holds out her handbag and opens it for inspection. 

“Satisfied?” she asks. 

“Standard procedure, Ms Adler,” the bodyguard replies. “Mr Magnussen’s waiting for you in his office. Just right up the stairs.”

“Thank you,” Irene says, zipping her handbag closed. She turns to wink at Janine and she walks to the stairs. Both the bodyguard and Janine watch her as she goes. Neither of them notices the shadow-like figure that slips out of the still open lift.

~ ~ ~

**Nine days earlier**

The lights in the kitchen and in the sitting room are on when Mary comes back.

“Hi honey, I’m home!” she yells from the front door as she sometimes does, because she knows it makes John smile and often he responds with something equally silly.  
She likes it, this playfulness between the two of them, their little in-jokes. This thing that they have still feels so bright and new and exhilarating, it makes her smile at random odd moments during her day – she caught herself grinning at the yogurt section at the supermarket today, thinking of John’s unprovoked rant that one time he went on and on because surely more than a dozen brands of yogurt was too many brands? And it’s a bit scary how much she loves him, not in spite of but perhaps _because of_ how ridiculous he sometimes gets, and the ludicrous things he chooses to be ridiculous about.

“He’s not in,” a woman’s voice replies just as Mary reaches the sitting room door. She stops on the threshold, still holding the keys and the bag of groceries. There’s a woman sitting on her sofa, legs crossed, face hidden by a newspaper. Mary takes a couple of steps, keeping her eyes on her. 

“Left in a hurry,” the woman goes on, as calm and unruffled as if she were sitting in her own living room. “Reckon he’ll remember to send you a text in a few minutes.”

She lowers the paper to reveal a piercing blue gaze and a beautiful face framed by long, dark hair. She’s wearing red lipstick and nail polish to match – in fact, in those high heels and that elegant blue dress, she might just be a model waiting for the photographer on the set of a photo shoot. 

“Who are you?” Mary asks, her voice like ice. 

The woman cocks an eyebrow at her, not looking particularly impressed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she says. “I haven’t touched your husband, you really don’t have to worry. He doesn’t like me much, I’m afraid.”

“Who are you?” Mary repeats, dropping every word like a stone. The woman must pick up on her deadly tone because she doesn’t ignore the question this time.

“Irene Adler,” she says. “A pleasure.”

Mary has to search her brain for less than a second – she’s read the old posts on John’s blog, and he’s filled in the blanks of that particular story.

“You’re… that woman,” she says, and then frowns. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Irene’s eyes glint.

“Well, I’ve never done things the way I was supposed to.”

She uncrosses her legs and stands up. She's taller than Mary and looks like someone who knows how to move quickly and hold her own in a fight – in fact she looks like she's held a gun before and knows exactly how to use it. Mary’s learned how to recognize that sort of person. She feels suddenly exposed without any kind of weapon.  
Irene doesn’t look armed, but one never knows. She scans the room quickly and unobtrusively for an object to use should self-defense prove to be necessary and, having found nothing within reach, drops the groceries on the floor and grips the keys tighter in her fist.

“Either you tell me what the hell you’re doing in my house or I’m calling the police.”

Irene holds her hands up, palms turned to Mary as if to make herself look as inoffensive as possible.

“Now, no need for that. I mean you no harm. I just wanted to exchange a few words.” She lowers her arms, looking at Mary with intent. “You’re quite an interesting woman, Mary. Can I call you Mary? I know it’s not your name but after all it is the one you picked…”

Those few words, said in such an innocent tone, startle her so much she forgets how to breathe for a moment. Her heart is squeezed by an icy grip, and then it starts beating three times harder and faster, its thumps deafening in her ears. She might feel less frightened if Irene had pointed a gun at her.  
She doesn’t show it, at least she doesn’t think so. She’s faced much worse – but then again, she never had so much to lose.

“Have you come to threaten me?” She is relieved to hear herself sound cool and firm. 

“Lord, no,” Irene says. “Quite the contrary.”

They look at each other in silence for a few seconds. Mary’s phone starts to buzz in her coat pocket. She tightens her fists and ignores it.

“Then say what you have to say and feel free to leave. I haven’t got all night.”

“Neither have I. I’ll just get to the point then.” She pauses, assessing Mary with clear eyes that seem to declare futile any attempt at deception. “Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

Another shock in the space of a few seconds. Mary keeps her face blank, her posture betrays nothing, but the name hits her like a punch. It’s been on her mind, of course, ever since the wedding – but she doesn’t see what this woman has to do with that man, and she certainly did not expect to hear his name fall so lightly from her lips. It’s clear Irene knows a great deal more about Mary than she thought possible. She should have remembered the moment she heard her name what kind of person she was dealing with. It would be a big mistake to underestimate this woman.

“I know he has contacted you,” Irene goes on, calmly. “I know he has information about your past he plans to use as leverage against you, and that since he poses a threat to your newfound _domesticity_ ,” – the word sounds almost mocking – “you’re going to eradicate this threat in any way you can." 

Turning her back to Irene, Mary takes off her coat and goes to hook it on the coat stand in the corner.

“And what is it to you?” she asks. Irene raises her eyebrows when she turns back to her.

“You see,” she says slowly, “you and I happen to want the same thing, and I have information you might find… useful.”

Mary exhales a mirthless laugh.

“And you’ve decided to share it out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Not quite,” Irene replies, her mouth twisting for a moment as if biting back a smile. “I’d like to make a deal.”

Mary is momentarily stunned by the absurdity of that statement. 

“I don’t make _deals_ with blackmailers.”

“Blackmailer!” Irene almost spits the word out, voice brimming with disdain. “What an ugly word. I’m nothing like Magnussen, dear. I’m just ensuring my protection. Hardly a fault, is it? A woman has to look after herself in this world or no one else will.” She tilts her head, looking at Mary with knowing eyes. “But you know all about that, don’t you?”

A shiver runs down Mary’s spine. She recognizes this moment for what it is – the few seconds before a leap into the unknown. She can turn her back on Irene now, throw her out of her house and tell her not to show her face again. Or she can listen to what Irene has to stay, and hope she’s not about to get caught in a web of tricks and lies from which she might not be able to wriggle free. 

“I’m listening,” she says.

Irene nods in approval. “I know you befriended Magnussen’s PA in order to get your hands on whatever documents are currently in his possession.” 

“And how do you know that?”

Irene waves a hand as if dismissing the question.

“I know quite a few things about quite a few people. Not important.” She crosses her arms on her chest, drawing herself a bit straighter. “I’ve always known Magnussen had compromising information about me – that’s the price one has to pay for meddling with people of his kind. It’s never particularly bothered me before but now he has... overstepped. And he needs to be stopped.”

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

“You are going to kill him.”

The way she says it makes it difficult to understand whether she’s issuing an order or simply stating a fact. The idea has crossed Mary’s mind, obviously, but hearing it voiced so plainly from a woman she’s never met before renders her speechless for a moment. 

“Or, if you prefer, we are,” Irene says as Mary stares at her mutely. “I’m more than willing to help once you come up with a proper plan. But I understand you had training…”

“I can’t just kill him,” Mary interrupts, and she can’t quite keep the disbelief from her tone. “He has contacts, he has– a network. I won’t be safe if I don’t retrieve the files he has on me. Someone else could get their hands on them, someone will just step into his place.”

“You _are_ going to kill him,” Irene repeats, as if it was a promise, “after I tell you what I know.”

They stand, one in front of the other, as if trying to assess the strengths and the weaknesses of an unexpected enemy. The air is thick with tension. It’s the kind of deceptive calm that precedes a strike. 

“Why should I trust you?” Mary asks.

“I’m not asking you to _trust_ me,” Irene says with a shrug. “I’m not even saying you should. Just believe I’m telling the truth this time. It will be enough.”

Irene walks around the coffee table as if to leave the room, and Mary shifts to keep her in her visual field. 

“Of course, I don’t expect an answer right now,” Irene says. “You can sleep on it. Just don’t take too long, I have a feeling dear John and his friend are going to stick their noses in the whole affair, and they might make a mess of it.”

Mary moves, quickly, the moment Irene is close to the door.  
In a second she’s there, slamming Irene’s back against the doorframe. She hears her soft gasp as her spine hits the wood with a thump, the harsh intake of breath when she finds herself with Mary’s forearm pressed against her throat.

“If you ever breathe a word about any of this to my husband,” Mary growls, her face an inch from Irene’s, “I’ll make sure you’ll regret the day you met me.”

Irene wriggles just a bit at first, most likely startled by Mary’s swift move, but she keeps her hands to her sides, not even trying to push her away. Mary stares into Irene’s eyes, sees them flash almost as if in amusement. A pleased smile grows on Irene’s face.

“Oh,” she drawls. “I can see why he likes you.”

~ ~ ~

He's waiting for Irene in the middle of his office, standing propped against his desk with his arms folded. Behind the spectacles, his eyes light up with undisguised eagerness.

“Ms Adler,” he says, rolling the name on his tongue. “A pleasure.”

Irene steps into the room, keeping her eyes fixed on his face. “Wish I could say the same.”

“Please, sit down,” Magnussen says, with a curt nod to the single chair in front of the desk. Irene eyes the chair with diffidence.

“I’m fine where I am,” she replies neutrally. 

Magnussen pushes the chair towards her with his foot, and waits. She walks to the desk, sits in the chair, only inches away from Magnussen’s legs, places her handbag in her lap and her hands on her handbag. She looks composed enough. Magnussen looks down at Irene from over the rim of his glasses.

“I believe I’ve been remarkably patient, Ms Adler,” he declares. “You’re not that hard to track down.”

“I told you I would get back to you. Here I am.”

They look at each other in silence for a few seconds.

“Enough pleasantries,” Magnussen says. He pushes himself onto the desk. His leg touches Irene’s knee. If he sees the disgust flicker across her face he gives no signs of having noticed. “You have the photographs with you.”

Irene opens her handbag and takes out a folded envelope. Magnussen holds out his upturned hand, but Irene pulls her arm back a little.

“First things first,” she chides.

Magnussen places his hand back on the desk.

“I thought we had been through this.”

“And I thought you lied,” Irene says. She turns the envelope in her hands, fingers pressing on the fold line in the middle. “So now’s your chance to tell me what you know.”

Magnussen narrows his eyes and tilts his head, studying her. “You are playing with fire.”

“Yes,” Irene agrees in a mild tone.

Magnussen heaves himself off the desk and walks around it to sit in his own chair. “I don’t know why you came here if you intended only to waste my time, Ms Adler. I don’t take kindly to being led on.”

“Moriarty–” starts Irene.

“Is dead,” Magnussen cuts in.

“So am I,” she retorts.

Magnussen smiles. For some reason it’s an unnerving thing to behold.

“You didn’t shoot yourself in the head.”

“Neither did I jump off a building.” She presses the envelope against her thigh. “You must know something.”

“Rumors.”

“Rumors are never just that, as we both know.”

Magnussen leans back in his chair. “And even if I knew,” he says, “why on earth should I tell _you_?”

Irene looks at him with an equally cold stare. “Because, maybe, I might have been inclined to be merciful.”

~ ~ ~

**Nine days earlier**

“I’ll be in touch,” Irene says right before slipping away.

Mary stares at the door for a while after she’s gone, and then she remembers to check her phone.  
A text from John.

_sorry, sherlock needed me for a case_

(Not really surprising.) And:

 _nothing too dangerous I think but you know how he is. Will call as soon as we’re finished. Love you_ , which for some reason makes her feel slightly uneasy, and she doesn’t know if it’s concern for John or a delayed reaction to her encounter with Irene but she’s suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of anxiety that makes her sag onto the sofa, and has to recline her head against the back as she tries to keep her breathing slow. Her heart is beating against her ribs like a wild bird in a cage, as if doing its best to pump right out of her chest.  
Some minutes later, when she’s calmed down a bit, she finds herself gripping the arm and the cushion of the sofa with sweaty hands. She unclenches her fingers and goes to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, takes out her mug, takes out John’s mug distractedly and puts it back in the cupboard.

She sits in front of the telly and turns it on, sipping from her mug and grimacing at the taste of unsweetened tea. She abandons it on the coffee table, next to her phone.  
She lets the white noise of the telly fill her head for a while and waits on the sofa until almost two in the morning before switching it off and going up to her bedroom.  
She hears – much, much later – the soft jingle of keys as the front door is carefully opened, and John’s careful steps as he enters the bedroom. She’s lying on her side and he can’t see her face. She pretends to be asleep when John slips into their bed. The mattress squeaks softly as he rolls a bit closer to her.  
He didn't call.  
John’s breathing gets deeper and slower as he slips into slumber. Mary’s still awake.  
He drapes an arm around her waist in his sleep, and she places her hand on his and closes her eyes, thinking about the things they keep from each other.

~ ~ ~

True to her word, Irene ‘gets in touch’ a couple of days later.  
Mary’s walking to the tube station after meeting Janine for a coffee – they meet quite often these days, not just because Mary needs to keep her close but also because she’s come to genuinely like her – when someone links an arm to hers and falls into step beside her.

“You had time to think,” Irene says. She has her hair pulled back in a high ponytail and she’s wearing square tinted glasses. She looks quite different without all the makeup.

“Oh, hello,” Mary says. “So you’ve been following me. You do know you’re doing a piss-poor job of making yourself look trustworthy.” 

Irene ignores her dig and they walk in silence for a while.

“Well?” Irene asks.

They pass the tube station. Mary hums, keeping her gaze ahead. She feels Irene’s hand twitch on her arm.

“I want to know what you know,” Mary eventually says. She’s not looking at Irene but she feels her relax, as if she was waiting for her answer to draw her next breath. 

“Very well,” Irene says, sounding almost cheerful now. “You can buy me a coffee.”

“I’ve just had coffee,” Mary protests.

“I know, but I need one.”

 

They sit on a bench in St James’s park while Irene sips her latte. She stretches on the bench, closes her eyes and tilts her face up, like a cat lazing in a spot of sunlight.

“Aren’t you at all worried about being seen?” Mary asks, since Irene seems utterly unconcerned.

Irene tips the dregs of her coffee into her mouth and smacks her lips. “I’m dead, remember. Not many people looking for me.” 

There’s something about her nonchalant attitude that reminds Mary of Sherlock when he first came back – acting as if it had all been a grand adventure to add to a list of many, yet sometimes, in some unguarded moments, there was a studied stillness that crept into his expression, like a crack in a façade.

“So, how was it? Being dead. I asked Sherlock but he wouldn’t say.”

Irene sighs. “More boring than you’d think, actually.”

Mary smiles. “Hmm. I can see why he likes you.” 

Irene turns to look at her curiously but doesn’t reply.  
Does Sherlock know she’s in London? Does he even know she’s alive? She has started to wonder (little else to do in the last few days). They were both supposed to be dead. Did they spend some of that time being not-dead together?

“Janine,” Irene declares, pulling Mary out of that train of thought.

“What about her?”

“She’s more than Magnussen’s PA,” Irene states. “She’s one of his victims, too.”

Mary nods, not exactly sure where the conversation is going. “Okay,” she says slowly, an invitation to continue.

Irene crumples the empty coffee cup in her hand. “Magnussen likes to exert his power by preying on the weakest and most vulnerable,” she explains. “It wouldn't be the first time he's intimidated and coerced people into working for him, and it only makes sense that he should keep those who are closer to him on an even shorter leash. They’re sworn to secrecy – he needs to be sure they won’t utter a word about his vile business to anyone, and he knows they won’t because he could destroy their lives in a moment if they dared to try.”

She pauses as a couple of joggers – a man and a woman – approach the bench they’re sitting on. Irene and Mary look at them as they pass by, laughing at a joke Mary didn’t catch. 

“They are his protection,” Irene continues once they’re gone. “But they are also his weak spot. They’re not loyal, only scared. Show one of them a way out, and they’ll turn their back on Magnussen in the blink of an eye.”

“So you think I should tell Janine,” Mary says flatly, because she’s still not sure what Irene’s trying to tell her. “Because of a hunch you have. That’s your great plan.”

“I’m saying,” Irene says, punctiliously, “that if you think she can be trusted she might be useful.”

“Useful to what?”

Irene handbags her lips. “Magnussen needs to be eliminated.”

As if Mary hadn’t thought about it already. As if she had been waiting for Irene to tell her. 

“We've been over this,” Mary protests, aware that frustration is starting to seep into her voice but not quite caring. “If I don’t know what he’s keeping in his vaults–”

“Mary,” Irene says, talking over her. The quiet authority with which she says her name grips Mary’s attention like a hook. She looks at Irene, who pushes up her glasses and looks at her with steady blue eyes. “There were never any vaults.”

~ ~ ~

“Oh, Mary!” Irene turns slightly in her chair, looking at the door from over her shoulder. “Do come in.”

Magnussen looks at the woman hovering on the doorstep of his office and his eyes widen. He fixes his gaze on the gun pointed at him and schools his face into a neutral expression almost immediately, but just for a second his eyes betray a flicker of fear.

“Surely this can’t come as a complete surprise,” Irene says.

“Mrs Watson,” Magnussen says, ignoring Irene. 

Mary raises her chin, hands steady. “Got anything?” she asks Irene, keeping her eyes on Magnussen.

Irene sighs. “He’s being uncooperative,” she says, as if complaining about a stubborn child.

“As I already told Ms Adler, I don’t–”

“Oh, keep quiet you,” Mary shushes him, waving her gun. “Get on the floor.”

Magnussen pales a bit. He looks at Mary, and then at Irene, as if uncomprehending, before turning his eyes back on the gun.

“I assure you– ”

“Didn’t you hear, Charles?” Irene gets up from the chair and walks towards the carpet in the middle of the room. “On your knees. Up you get.”

Magnussen gets on his feet almost reflexively but doesn’t move from the desk. Mary takes a step forward.

“We haven’t got all night, Mr Magnussen.”

“You can’t…” he starts, voice trembling, though it isn’t clear who exactly he’s addressing now. “Mrs Watson. Think of your husband…”

“Oh, honestly now,” Mary scoffs, walking to the center of the room, and Magnussen sinks to his knees beside his desk, bringing his hands to his head and folding in on himself.

“Feeling ready to talk, now?” Irene asks.

“I don’t know,” Magnussen blurts out, but it doesn’t sound like an answer to Irene’s question. “I really don’t, I–”

“Pity,” Irene says in a final tone, and Mary cocks her gun just as Magnussen yelps, “Wait!”

They all stand frozen for a moment, a weird tableau in the center of the room. Magnussen whimpers, then seems to realize he still has a chance to talk. 

“He _is_ dead, Ms Adler,” he gasps. “That’s what I know. But there is someone… his right-hand man. He’s working to set the whole network back up.”

“Moran,” Irene mutters to herself, and Magnussen nods frantically, looking like a drowning man who’s just caught sight of a lifesaver. 

“And where is he?”

Magnussen’s eyes fill with dread. He opens and shuts his mouth, licks his dry lips. “He’s… somewhere in Eastern Europe. I know he left Vileyka less than a month ago.”

He looks for a moment as if he had more to say – he looks as if he desperately wanted to have more to say. Irene waits in silence.

“That’s it?” she says coolly after ten long seconds. “That’s all you’ve got.”

“Ms Adler, please…”

“You really are a useless little man, aren’t you?” Irene observes. She turns to look at Mary and Magnussen must read his death sentence in her gaze for he takes a quick breath as if to speak, but the bullet blows a hole in his forehead before he can utter a single word.  
Mary and Irene watch Magnussen’s limp body as it flops forward, face first onto the carpet. The blood starts to bloom vividly against the white. Irene turns Magnussen’s head with her foot. Silent, Mary watches as she presses the sole of her shoe against his cheek, almost musingly. Magnussen’s glasses fall from his still face. 

“We’re done here,” Irene says. “Let’s go.”

~ ~ ~

They leave the building quickly, stopping to take care of Janine first. She’s still sitting where they left her, and likely hasn’t moved the whole time they were in Magnussen’s office.

“Don’t you worry, darling,” Irene reassures her, voice like silk. “You won’t feel a thing. Just like going to sleep.”

Janine tilts her head back while Mary passes Irene a capped syringe. “Your friend should wake in a few minutes,” Irene murmurs, nodding to the unconscious bodyguard on the floor, and pricks Janine’s exposed throat with the needle. “It will be all over before you know it.”

It takes only a few seconds for the drug to take effect. Janine’s eyes flutter close, and Irene catches her before she can slide off her chair. They lay her on the floor and then they go.

First Mary gets rid of the gun. She ties it in a handkerchief and throws it in the Thames. They both watch it sink as it is engulfed by the black water. They dispose of the gloves a bit further on.

“So it’s over,” Mary says, mostly to herself, as they lean against the riverbank.

Irene wraps her coat a bit tighter around herself. 

“If you’re sure your friend will stick to the story we agreed on,” she replies, “I don’t think we’re going to come into any trouble.”

"You wouldn't be here if you weren't sure of that yourself," Mary says, and Irene replies, "Oh, I can always disappear, I'm quite good at it."

They remain in silence for a moment. 

“Was he telling the truth, do you think?” Mary asks after a while.

“I think he was, but who can say?” Irene shrugs, then shakes her head. “Sherlock. A little too eager to come back, I think. He got a bit sloppy in the end.”

Mary looks at her. “Are you going to tell him?” 

Irene doesn’t reply.

“John and Sherlock,” she eventually says instead. “They are quite sweet, aren’t they? A couple of schoolboys going on adventures together.”

Mary puts both hands in her pockets. It’s early in September and the days are still pleasantly warm, but the night is a bit chilly now, and her fingers are starting to get cold without the gloves. 

“Does it really not bother you?” Irene asks. She’s a bit closer to Mary now, she can feel her warmth against her side. Mary frowns.

“What doesn’t?” she asks, puzzled, and Irene takes her chin between her fingers, raises her head, and presses her lips to hers. The kiss is so unexpected that Mary remains unresponsive at first, before coming to herself and turning her head. Irene’s mouth brushes against her cheek, and then she pulls back slightly but doesn’t step away.

Mary blinks at her. “I’m married.”

“That doesn’t seem to stop your husband.”

It’s Mary that takes a step back. Her expression hardens into a scowl. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Irene doesn’t speak.

“They are just friends,” Mary says, because Irene’s silence feels like judgment and it’s heavier than any words she could have said. “That’s all they are.”

Irene looks at her, her face unreadable. “As you wish,” she says softly. She loops her arm into Mary’s, tugs her a bit against her. “Let me walk you back.”

“I’m not going home.”

“Of course not. Staying at a friend’s?”

Mary nods, thinks of the lie she slipped John before going out – just one of many, these days. She feels a heavy weight settle in her stomach. She’s so unaccustomed to the feeling that it takes her a moment to recognize it as guilt.

“Very well,” Irene says. “Let’s go to my place then. It’s not that far.”

It is in fact a bit further than Mary would've assumed from Irene’s remark, but she hardly notices.  
She walks in silence and thinks of nothing, almost in a daze.

 

Irene’s place is ridiculously small – there’s a tiny kitchen, a bedroom with a bathroom, and that’s it. (“Won’t stay here long, anyway,” Irene explains, though Mary hadn’t asked.)

“The photos,” Mary remembers, as Irene puts a kettle on. “What was it?”

“Oh, royal gossip,” Irene replies. “Nothing exciting.”

They sip tea sitting at the small round table and Mary can’t stop thinking of John for some reason, until Irene touches her cheek and Mary is surprised to feel wetness on her skin. She lowers her head because she doesn’t want Irene to look at her with those piercing eyes. She feels the urge to justify herself, to say that it’s not because of Magnussen – not because she killed a man, that’s something she’s done dozens of times before and it never fazed her – but then she’s not sure what came over her, she doesn’t know what caused this sense of unease, the sudden constriction in her throat that makes it hard to swallow.

“You’re tired,” Irene says. She gets up and takes Mary by the hand, leading her to the bedroom.

 

They lie on their sides in the small bed, practically spooning. Irene curls behind Mary, petting her hair like one would to soothe a child.

“Do you really think– ?” Mary asks at some point during the night, and Irene says, “Shh, love. Sleep now.” Her mouth is warm on Mary’s neck.

~ ~ ~

The following morning it’s on all the papers’ first pages. Of course it is.

John skims the article at the kitchen table, stirring his tea. He has that crease between his eyebrows that appears when he’s deep in thought. 

“What’s the matter, love?” Mary asks, passing him a plate with two slices of toast.

“Oh, nothing,” he says, vaguely. “Something to do with one of Sherlock’s cases.”

“Oh?”

“Hmm.” He sips his tea, and doesn’t add more.

 

Sherlock refuses to take the case. The police called him in, and he flat-out refused.  
She should be relieved. Should she be relieved? She isn’t sure.  
She’s wary around him for a few days afterwards. He doesn’t seem to look at her any differently.  
He’s a very good actor, though. She knows this very well.

~ ~ ~

Her phone literally goes bang one evening, and thank god John isn’t home to hear that.  
She’s sitting in front of the telly with a book and a glass of wine when a gunshot goes off, startling her, and she looks around with a racing heart for a few seconds before realizing it was just her phone.

 _It seemed rude not to leave you my number_ , the text on the screen reads.

 _You must think you’re so funny_ , Mary types.

 _I do, and I am,_ Irene texts back a few seconds later.

_Are you still in London?_

This time it takes Irene a couple of minutes to reply. _Left a couple of days ago, actually._

Mary feels a twinge of… something that is not quite disappointment but it’s very close – a sense of loss, maybe, a kind of wistfulness when she thinks of this accomplice she acquired almost unwillingly. She has some trouble pinpointing the cause of this feeling for a moment, and has to remind herself that nothing ties people closer than compromising secrets shared.

Her phone goes off again with the same gunshot sound. (She’ll have to change the settings, must remember to do it before John comes back.) 

_I’ll be sure to let you know when I get back again_ , the new text reads. _Might need a hand again in the future._

Mary grins at the screen of her phone.

**Author's Note:**

> If you, like me, like the idea of Sherlock and Irene spending some time being not-dead together, I suggest you read [**The Sun Is But A Morning Star**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/347201), [**L’appel du vide**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/367230) (classics) and [**The Love Affairs of Ghosts**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/359953) (short but great.) Now that I think of it, it’s probably fanfiction that planted the idea in my mind.  
>  (In fact, Irene’s reading a paper when she meets Mary because I was probably thinking of the scene at the beginning of [**The Sun Is But A Morning Star**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/347201), where she waits for John to come home sitting on his sofa and reading The Guardian. I didn't remember she greeted John with a "Honey, you're home!", though.)


End file.
